


live in times that touch

by shamecorner



Series: the white wolf and her bard [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Genderbending, Genderswap, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Negotiation, Stone Butch, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, nothing in this series has been beta read but hey at least i'm warning you now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26038378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamecorner/pseuds/shamecorner
Summary: "It was twotiny nekkers," says Jaskier, smacking Gwyn in the shoulder. "Barely strained yourself, I bet. Mm." The smack turns into a grope, and she molds her palm to the swell of Gwyn's bicep. "But you could strainmeany time, darling."Five times Jaskier has an orgasm, and one time Gwyn does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: the white wolf and her bard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876882
Comments: 25
Kudos: 353





	live in times that touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU where Geralt is a butch lesbian and Jaskier is a bisexual woman. Geralt uses the name Gwyn and she/her pronouns with Jaskier, but passes as a man and goes by Geralt in public. It'll make a lot more sense if you read the [first part of this series,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25589635) but I think that this short summary is adequate if you are just here for like, a LOT of lesbian porn. When I started this, I was like, "will this be porn-flavored character development or character-development-flavored porn?" It is very much the latter.
> 
> This story contains oblique references to dysphoria, and Gwyn is depicted as a stone butch. Please see the end notes for more detailed information about potential triggers.
> 
> Title is from the song Holy Roller by Thao & The Get Down Stay Down.

1.

When Jaskier read the contract on the notice board, she hadn't realized that the farmers—a bedraggled few who scraped potatoes from the obstinate soil of their crossroads village—intended to make their payment in vodka.

In Jaskier's defense, the penmanship was very poor.

Gwyn's still in a bit of a snit about it, though. She'd ridden up to the farmers with a pair of nekker heads trussed to Roach's rump, held out her hand, and received a dusty handle of liquor instead of a purse.

In the farmers' defense, it's very good vodka.

"Soon as we hit Vizima," slurs Jaskier, "an' I can drum up some coin, I'll pay you for this one, yeah?" She takes another burning swig. "Fuck if this stuff wasn't worth it, though."

"Worth what?" Gwyn shoots her a tepid glare. "You're not the one who did the work."

Their campfire pops and crackles in spurts, like clumsily hidden laughter.

"It was two _tiny nekkers_ ," says Jaskier, smacking Gwyn in the shoulder. "Barely strained yourself, I bet. Mm." The smack turns into a grope, and she molds her palm to the swell of Gwyn's bicep. "But you could strain _me_ any time, darling."

Gwyn's brow furrows. Jaskier pictures the cogs ka-chunking in her tactician's brain. Then, when Jaskier's attention is recaptured by her burly arm, Gwyn swipes the bottle back. She's been matching Jaskier drink for drink, but she only seems buzzed, whereas Jaskier's skull is sloshing like a full cup.

Jaskier tilts backwards, sprawling over Gwyn's legs. The night sky arcs behind Gwyn's silver head. "Wasn't done with that. Dirty thief."

"It's _my_ payment," grumbles Gwyn. She cups Jaskier's cheek, skims her fingertips over Jaskier's eyebrow, down the side of her nose, along her upper lip. Each touch hums in Jaskier's skin. She pokes Gwyn's thumb with a dart of tongue.

Gwyn takes a long, throat-bobbing drink. Her strong jaw cuts shadows into the firelight.

" _You_ ," says Jaskier, pointing, "have a sexy face."

"Flattery won't work on me," says Gwyn, tucking the vodka somewhere behind her back.

"Was just an observation." Jaskier picks at the top button of her tunic. "Y'want flattery? I can flatter with the best of 'em."

"Still not giving you the vodka."

"Don't want the vodka anymore," says Jaskier, fumbling down the line of buttons. "M'gonna compliment you. Surly bastard."

Gwyn's thighs shift under Jaskier's back. "Great compliment."

"Shut your big, stupid mouth," says Jaskier. "Beautiful mouth. Perfect mouth." The tunic falls open, revealing a blouse with an ostentatious neckline. "You're— _heartbreakingly_ attractive, Gwyn. You should be kissing me _all the time_." She takes Gwyn's hand, smushes her lips to the knuckles.

Unfortunately, Jaskier's monologue fails to incite immediate ravishing. Jaskier wavers, reluctant to haul herself upright—the drunkenness makes gravity pour over her in heavy waves. But the desire simmering in her gut makes a better argument, so she sits up, wriggling in Gwyn's lap until they're nose to nose.

"Jaskier." Gwyn's breath ghosts over her lips.

"That is my name, yes," she says, and leans forward.

It's a sloppy kiss, with the acrid vodka aftertaste sharpening their breath, Jaskier's lax tongue sweeping along the chapped edge of Gwyn's bottom lip. Jaskier tilts her head, reveling in the closeness and depth and the near-misses of their teeth. Gwyn's hands splay over her hips, tensing and relaxing in restless pulses.

"Jaskier," says Gwyn, into Jaskier's mouth.

She tips back just enough to catch the glint of Gwyn's irises. "Lay me down," she purrs. "Wanna come on your fingers."

"Jaskier," says Gwyn, a little strangled. "You're too drunk."

She considers this. There's a queasy wobble in her vision, a lag between her brain's decisions and her movements. The idea of surrendering herself to Gwyn, soft and pliant and giggling, isn't unpleasant. Except—there have been times, before, when a stray hand or an unthinking comment made Gwyn twitch and go still. It would be hard to pay attention with a liquor-stewed brain.

She has private doubts that those moments are what Gwyn was imagining. It doesn't make her reluctance any less reasonable.

"Fuck," groans Jaskier. "I hate it, but you're right."

"Yeah," says Gwyn, swaying into a final, lingering kiss.

When they part, Jaskier scrunches her eyes shut and thumps her forehead against Gwyn's shoulder. "Devil's bouncing _tits_."

Gwyn runs a soothing touch down her back. Jaskier sighs and squirms off Gwyn's lap, stumbling away to find a waterskin.

When she returns, the bedrolls are spread out in neat parallel lines, and Gwyn's kicking dirt over the fire.

"Party's over, then," Jaskier mutters.

"Yes. Drink more water."

"I did," says Jaskier. She collapses into a bedroll, twisting to watch Gwyn hunker down beside her. " _You_ drink water."

Gwyn ignores that, crossing her arms under her head. Her threadbare sleeves cling to her muscles. _Unfair_ , thinks Jaskier, biting her tongue. _Never gonna drink again._

"Yes, you are," says Gwyn.

Jaskier blinks. "I said that out loud?"

"No," says Gwyn, sarcasm pulling her voice into a drawl. "I'm a mind reader."

Jaskier pouts. _Read this_ , she thinks, and lets her gaze drag lazily down Gwyn's body, flushes hot with memories of her touch: dappled bruises down her chest, a nip at her earlobe. The satisfaction of stretching around Gwyn's capable fingers.

Gwyn gives her a narrow-eyed look.

"What?" says Jaskier, picking absently at her lip.

Gwyn exhales in a low rush. "Can smell what you're thinking about."

"Oh, can you?" whispers Jaskier, coy, inching a hand towards her own waistband. "Fuck, Gwyn, I'm—is this—is this okay?"

Heat shimmers in Gwyn's stare. "Yes."

"Oh, thank fuck," says Jaskier, and she battles with yet another set of buttons, gasping when she finally rubs a hand over her dripping cunt. She flips to her back, plants her feet for leverage, and thrusts crudely into the pressure of her palm.

There's shuffling at her side. Jaskier glances over. Gwyn's propped on an elbow, lips hanging loose, gaze dark and intent. She looks, if anything, like she was just punched in the face.

Jaskier gnaws on her lip, wrangles the unrefined motion of her hand into a more precise rhythm—quick, hard strokes, more for efficiency than pleasure. She angles her legs wide and puts her free hand to work, hooking two fingers inside herself just to hold them there, just for something to clench on. Her hips lift, her spine held in a taut line that extends down her thighs, and she's breathless, her forearm numbing with strain, sweat gathering in the creases behind her knees. She meets Gwyn's eyes, drunk all over again on the thrill of being watched. The world narrows to pants of breath, and quiet, ragged moans, and the weight of Gwyn's stare. And that's enough—the pleasure coils, snaps, and Jaskier's climax jolts through her body, engulfing her in fuzzy shivers. She eases to the ground, blowing hair from her face.

Jaskier settles on her side, grinning. "Did you blink even once, that whole time?"

Gwyn blinks, deliberately slow.

Jaskier snickers. "That doesn't count." She examines her hand, rubbing her drenched index finger against her thumb. "Hm. Pruny."

Gwyn snorts. "Go to sleep, Jaskier."

Jaskier smiles, small and sly. She cocoons herself in a blanket and huddles up to Gwyn's body. "Sweet dreams, love."

2.

The next morning, Jaskier peels her crusted eyelids apart, and Gwyn is already awake.

That alone is far from unusual. Unusual enters the equation when Jaskier is barely given a moment to piss and rinse her mouth before Gwyn is plastered to her back, kissing fervently along her neck, gripping her waist.

"How are you feeling?" asks Gwyn, between drags of her tongue.

"Hungover," deadpans Jaskier.

Gwyn pauses. Her hands loosen.

"Oh, love, not _that_ hungover," says Jaskier, lolling her head back against Gwyn's shoulder. "Keep going."

Gwyn hums. She leaves brief, teasing bites down Jaskier's neck, slips meandering hands underneath Jaskier's blouse. Jaskier groans, sleep-gritty and wanting, because her life is absurd and she's developed an instinctive reaction to calluses grazing her nipples. 

She drapes all her weight on Gwyn's sturdy frame. "You must've—ah, _Gwyn_ —must've had some _really_ excellent dreams."

Then Jaskier's vision blurs, and her stomach flips, and suddenly she's hoisted into Gwyn's arms, cradled to her chest.

"Oh," says Jaskier, eyes moon-wide. "Huh?"

Gwyn walks with purpose, depositing her gently on their mussed pair of bedrolls. "What you said last night," she says, climbing over Jaskier's prone body. "Laid you down. Now you're gonna come on my fingers."

"You get so literal when you want to fuck, darling," says Jaskier, snaking a hand into Gwyn's hair. "I love it."

She arches into a kiss, which fades to Gwyn's slack mouth held against her own, just a humid exchange of breath while Gwyn's focus diverts to the task of stripping Jaskier. Gwyn yanks Jaskier's trousers and smallclothes down at once, rucks up her blouse and leaves it bunched over Jaskier's collarbones.

"A little hasty, are we?" mumbles Jaskier, pulling away from Gwyn's mouth to finish the job.

She doesn't get the chance. When her hand passes in front of Gwyn's face, Gwyn grips her wrist, laves her tongue between Jaskier's middle and index fingers.

"Smelled you," she says, breath puffing across Jaskier's fingertips. "All night." She draws the captive digits into her mouth, down to the second knuckle. 

Blunt edges of teeth compliment the heat and the wet of Gwyn's tongue. Her movements are unpracticed, subconscious, a little erratic in a way that a witcher's physicality rarely is; she tends to wield her strength and dexterity carefully, honed to Jaskier's needs. Gwyn is taking something for herself, and that small vulnerability smacks Jaskier into abrupt, dizzying gratitude.

Gwyn frees Jaskier's fingers, licking a winding path over her palm. Fascination sneaks behind Jaskier's arousal. Jaskier had some inkling of Gwyn's oral fixation, but she's never been this blatant about it before.

Gwyn inhales, lip twitching against Jaskier's wrist. "Still tastes like you."

Oh. Well, that would do it.

Jaskier shifts her hips. Her pulse throbs in her clit. "I believe you made me a promise, earlier. If you don't mind."

Gwyn sits back, and Jaskier stifles a whine. Goosebumps prickle over her exposed skin. Luckily, Gwyn only pauses long enough to tug her shirt over her head and peel off her trousers, and she falls back to Jaskier with thorough kisses. Jaskier grinds her slick cunt along Gwyn's thigh. She imagines how it must look, to leave a wet trail on Gwyn's broad leg, and feels herself clench around nothing.

"Gwyn," she says, a thin tremble from her throat. "Gods, _please_. Need you inside me."

Jaskier gets a single finger. A clever finger, crooked expertly up against the inside of Jaskier's pubic bone, rubbing insistently, but not enough. Gwyn's mouth is a wry twist on Jaskier's neck.

"Have I given you the impression," says Jaskier, "that I'm _not_ ready for you to fuck me through the ground?"

"Thought about this all night," says Gwyn, nipping under Jaskier's jaw. "Let me take my time."

Jaskier grapples for a retort. "I'll," she pants, " _I'll_ take your time. Sweet Melitele, Gwyn—"

Gwyn rumbles a laugh into Jaskier's skin. "Thought you called me hasty." She rises a little, leaving a cruel gap between their bodies, joined only by her finger inside Jaskier.

"A grave error." Jaskier bucks her hips, seeking friction against her clit and finding none. "I'll never do it again." A red line of heat radiates from the press of Gwyn's hand, crumbling her insides to hot ash.

Finally, mercifully, a second finger joins the first. Jaskier's soft gasps swell into a moan. Gwyn sets a solid hand across her stomach, quelling her rolling hips. Held down like this, there's nowhere else for the sensation to go, nothing to ground the sparks between her legs. Jaskier shuts her eyes, scrapes fitfully at the blankets.

And then Gwyn adds a third finger, and her thrusts gain speed, and Jaskier's brain dribbles out of her ears.

" _Gods_ ," Jaskier chokes. "What are—how are you—"

"You take it so well," murmurs Gwyn. "Can you come, just from this?"

"I don't _know_ ," gasps Jaskier, truthfully, "but don't you _dare_ stop."

Gwyn's thigh is out of reach, and she's still trapping Jaskier flat to the bedroll. Bright pleasure wrenches her gut. It's so much, and she's gushing wet, and her clit aches, and all she can do is let it leak out of her open mouth, her clawing hands.

"Don't know if I—oh, _fuck_ ," babbles Jaskier. "Gwyn—I need—"

Gwyn bends down, nuzzles aside the fabric of Jaskier's blouse, and sets her teeth gently into Jaskier's nipple.

Jaskier lets out a lurching breath, like she's drowning.

Gwyn mouths low words into the space under Jaskier's collarbone, unheard over the roar in Jaskier's ears, and her relentless rhythm doesn't falter. Jaskier's skin is too small to hold her body's incandescent heat. She writhes, and yelps, and pleasure splits her at the seams, and only when her breaths become dry, hitching sobs does she notice that she's coming—has _been_ coming—hard enough to contract and then liquify all her joints in succession. 

Jaskier goes limp. Gwyn pulls her fingers free. She kisses Jaskier's brow, mumbles something gruff and sweet that Jaskier can't decipher.

"Good gods, Gwyn." Jaskier feels resonant, like a plucked string. "Did I die? I might've died."

Gwyn kisses the corner of her lip. "You didn't."

"Ah, thanks," says Jaskier. "I thought not."

She stays there, flopped in the blankets, waiting for her nerves to stop tingling. Gwyn rolls off to slide her feet into her trousers. 

Jaskier still asks, sometimes, and other times Gwyn uses clothes to avoid the question. 

They've been fucking consistently for a month, but Jaskier hasn't been allowed to reciprocate. Occasionally, she sees something waver behind Gwyn's eyes, and she's struck with the certainty that if she pressed into that tender place, dug a nail in deep, Gwyn would agree. But it'd be an agreement made with held breath and a rigid jaw. It would become another thing for Gwyn to endure.

("I don't want you to feel obligated, one way or the other," she'd said once. "Do you get enough out of this?"

"I do," Gwyn had said. "Trust me.")

Gwyn turns back to Jaskier. She trails chaste kisses over Jaskier's hand and forearm, then leans over to dot them along Jaskier's neck, crossing her jaw, ending with a peck on her mouth. After sex, Gwyn often lingers in an unguarded place, her affection expressed by simple repetitions of mouth to skin. Jaskier runs a thumb along Gwyn's scarred cheekbone. 

Gwyn's trust feels heavy, like a dagger in Jaskier's hand.

The morning is blooming fast, sun throwing splotches of light through the trees. They've got ground to cover if they want to reach Vizima before nightfall. 

Jaskier decides, abruptly, that it's too sunny to be somber.

She prods the tip of Gwyn's nose. "Fantastic as that was, love, I may have pulled a hamstring. Can I ride today?"

3.

There is a harpy-infested village in the highlands beyond Vizima. They screech in wretched swarms within the walls of an abandoned fort, and Gwyn has been promised a reward for their removal—coin, _not_ alcohol, though when Jaskier clarifies this with the alderman Gwyn elbows her side.

When they approach the claw-scraped walls of the fort, quivering with stray feathers and piercing shrieks, Jaskier balks; Gwyn says something about hollow bones and sword oil, which she interprets as a reassurance. Gwyn's silver blade—a reassurance in its own right—winks in the daylight. She charges ahead and slams a boot through the rotted door. Jaskier crouches behind a tree.

The screeching gets worse, for a long time.

Then, there's a resounding _boom_ , like a thunderclap trapped in the ground, and the front wall of the fort crumbles.

Jaskier yelps, tumbling backwards. The dust settles around a familiar silhouette. A few pairs of talons protrude from the rubble, encircled by nests of weathered stone. Jaskier gathers her dignity, scrambles upright, and jogs towards the fort's former perimeter.

Gwyn is speckled pale by dust, clamping a hand over her forearm. Red seeps between her fingers. Her sword shines at her feet.

"On a scale of papercut to mortal wound," starts Jaskier, but Gwyn huffs like an irritated horse before Jaskier can finish the sentence.

"My sword." Gwyn indicates it with a head tilt.

Jaskier slinks closer, angling for a view of Gwyn's arm. "What about it?"

"Pick it up," says Gwyn, "and sheathe it for me. Please."

"Oh, sure, right," says Jaskier. "That's not a concerning request at all!" She raises the blade, circles to Gwyn's back, and balances on tiptoes to fit it into the scabbard. It whispers into place like an apology.

When Jaskier returns to Gwyn's front, her sleeve is bunched over her elbow, and she's wrapping a bandage around her arm. Gwyn pulls the knot tight with her teeth and tests her hand with a couple of quick flexes. Her wrist spasms, and her fingers seize.

"So, just wondering, but—what," says Jaskier, gesturing at the ruined wall, "the fuck?"

"Aard," says Gwyn. She frowns at the bandage.

"Sorry?"

"Broke the wall."

"Yes, I can see that," says Jaskier. "Are you badly hurt?"

"Blocked a talon," says Gwyn, stepping heavily over the stones. "Dropped my sword."

The lack of a gruff dismissal is worrying.

"Not to worry," assures Jaskier, following Gwyn past the wall. "We'll find a doctor. There must be someone in town."

The best the alderman can offer are the services of a local hedge witch. Jaskier pesters Gwyn about it—not everything can be solved with needles, fishing line, and vodka—until she goes, reluctantly, fighting the tremors that ripple through her arm.

The witch takes Gwyn's frigid attitude in stride. Her shack is cramped, overflowing with baubles and odd things in jars, but her demeanor is professional.

"I suppose you're worried about the nerve damage," she says, inspecting the gash. "You've got a very odd nervous system. Though, that'll be the mutations, eh, Witcher?"

"Will it heal?" grits Gwyn.

"I suspect it will, though you'd better rest this arm."

The injury lances up Gwyn's right forearm. She's adequately ambidextrous, but with swords, she favors the right. Jaskier blanches. "For how long?"

"Well, I can realign the nerves and stitch it up proper," says the witch. "With that, and your own elixirs, Witcher, I imagine it'll be a few days 'til you can swing a sword." 

"Do it now," grunts Gwyn.

"Without a sleeping draught?" The witch's face goes grim. "It'll hurt like all hell, you understand."

" _Now._ "

Jaskier was on the verge of asking when, exactly, the hedge witch's magical expertise would become relevant, but then she poises her long-nailed fingers above Gwyn's wound, and the flesh underneath starts to squirm. She averts her gaze and memorizes the cracks in the floorboards, swallowing hard.

Gwyn's breath heaves in sharp, toneless bursts.

The witch takes their coin. Gwyn sways to her feet and trails Jaskier back to the inn, where the innkeeper refuses payment, on account of the slayed harpies. Sensing a rare advantage, Jaskier pushes for a free bath in addition to their free room. Her persuasion is met with little resistance. Not only has the innkeeper heard the White Wolf ballads, but the harpies had stolen one of her cats, and she's giddy to know they're dead.

After a solemn lunch, Gwyn trudges into their room, batting debris from her armor. Jaskier skirts around the dust clouds. It's spacious inside; the tub is full and steaming. Jaskier pokes the mattress, testing its firmness, when she catches Gwyn pawing at her armor.

"Absolutely not." She races to Gwyn's side and fumbles with the chestplate. "I'll take care of that."

Gwyn's jaw tightens. "I have two arms, Jaskier."

"Can you just—" Jaskier stills, her hand spread against Gwyn's ribs. "Would you let me do this?"

Gwyn exhales, her mouth receding to a narrow line. Finally, she nods.

"Good," breathes Jaskier. "Thank you."

The task is a good outlet for the last scraps of Jaskier's adrenaline. She lifts the dual scabbards, only stumbling a little under their weight, and unbuckles the mess of straps and studded leather. Her hands freeze when she reaches Gwyn's shirt. The top edge of her binder peeks beneath the loose laces on her collar.

Gwyn takes a single step backwards. Jaskier holds the moment gingerly, like a bird cupped in her hands.

"I'll put all this away, then, shall I?" she offers. "You should get in the bath before it cools."

Gwyn raises her left hand, brushes Jaskier's cheek, just once. Wordlessly, she starts to undress. 

Jaskier takes the cue and packs Gwyn's gear. She retrieves the soap and sets it near the tub, then jolts at the sight of Gwyn's bare back, mottled purple with bruises.

"Melitele preserve us," says Jaskier, as Gwyn lowers stiffly into the bath. "It almost looks as though a _wall_ fell on you."

Gwyn sets her injured forearm on the rim of the tub, keeping the stitches dry. "Wonder why." The water swirls with harpy blood and powdered stone.

Jaskier drags a stool up to the tub. "Could I help you with this, too?"

There's a beat of silence, followed by another nod.

Jaskier works the leather tie loose, pulling lathered hands through white hair. Gwyn's strict posture melts, gradually, until she leans languid against the tub. Froths of soap drip down her neck, bright against the violet marks. Her lashes lie clumped and dark against her damp cheek.

Jaskier bends over, aiming to kiss Gwyn's shoulder. Gwyn turns to intercept her, with clumsy, parted lips landing near Jaskier's chin. Jaskier laughs, twisting to find Gwyn's mouth. Their lips slide together, slow and slick.

"Gwyn," murmurs Jaskier, "My neck is going to cramp." She doesn't pull away.

Gwyn lets a canine scrape Jaskier's bottom lip. "Could always join me."

"The water's all—mm," she says, shivering. "Water's all murky now."

"Hm," says Gwyn, and then they stop talking.

Until there is a real twinge in Jaskier's neck, and she straightens, reluctantly. "Ow," she mutters. "Why don't you dry off and then join _me_ on the—oh, hey, _wait_." She swats the water in lieu of Gwyn's bruised skin. " _Resting_ , Gwyn, you're supposed to be resting."

"Two arms," repeats Gwyn, like it's a good argument.

Jaskier crosses her legs. Gwyn's nostrils twitch, and her smile slants into something wolfish.

"Are you getting _better_ at smelling me?" asks Jaskier, feigning scandal. 

Gwyn tilts her head noncommittally. 

"You're ridiculous." Jaskier blushes from ears to chest.

Gwyn rises out of the tub. Droplets shimmer along the ridges of her body, from broad shoulder to jutting hip to curved thigh. Jaskier snatches up a towel before Gwyn can reach, forcing Gwyn to tolerate a perfunctory pat-down.

"Enough," grouses Gwyn, pushing the towel aside.

Jaskier taps her sternum. "You're still wet, darling."

"Makes two of us," says Gwyn, inhaling. She tips drunkenly towards Jaskier's mouth.

Jaskier dodges. "Oh! Sweet gods. That line was _terrible_."

Gwyn trails a hand along Jaskier's jaw. "Thought it was pretty good."

"Insufferable fool," says Jaskier. "Get on the damn bed."

Gwyn obeys, sitting on the edge of the mattress, her gaze glinting sharp as Jaskier strips.

"We're only going to do this," says Jaskier, stepping out of her puddled dress, "if you can promise not to be too—athletic about it."

Gwyn stares silently. Jaskier climbs into Gwyn's lap, knees planted around one of Gwyn's thighs. Stray strands of water-dark hair cling to Gwyn's forehead. She pushes a fingertip through, smoothing them back into place.

"I need to hear you say it," says Jaskier. "Please. You'll be careful, for me?"

"Promise," says Gwyn.

Jaskier reaches out to drape her arms over Gwyn's back, but the bruises flash in her mind's eye, and she changes tack, cradling Gwyn's face in both hands. They kiss, a low hunger nipping at the heels of their earlier gentleness. Gwyn leans backwards, pulling Jaskier along with a palm between her shoulder blades, and they almost make it to the bedspread before Jaskier bolts upright.

"Gwyn—your back." Jaskier's thumbs trace the hollows under Gwyn's cheekbones. "You shouldn't lay on it."

A tiny sigh puffs from Gwyn's nose. "Switch with me, then."

"You can't prop yourself up, either, darling." Jaskier lands a swift kiss on Gwyn's brow. "Scoot back a bit, and we can just—sit, like this." She explains with a roll of her hips, grazing Gwyn's leg. The teasing touch crawls hot up her spine. "Yeah?"

Gwyn complies, dragging herself up the bed. Jaskier knee-walks after her, a little awkwardly, but Gwyn's gaze doesn't lose any heat. They pause, chest to chest. Gwyn raises her thigh, grinds it deliberately between Jaskier's legs, forcing out a small, startled hiss.

Jaskier whispers into the side of Gwyn's neck. "Don't move too much, just let—let me—" She meets Gwyn's taut thigh with her own thrusts. "That's good, love. Like that." There's a near-silent noise, a click in Gwyn's throat. Jaskier presses her teeth delicately against Gwyn's tendon. She soothes disjointed praise over the indents. "Perfect, love. That's it. Feels so good, darling."

Gwyn's breath shudders. Her left hand fidgets, gripping Jaskier's ass, flitting to the curve of her breast, sliding over her ribcage. Jaskier leans back, finding Gwyn's eyes. They're glassy. Distant. Jaskier's hands rest over Gwyn's solid shoulders, but she feels a phantom pulse—too fast to be Gwyn's, yet separate from her own—beating birdlike in her palms.

Jaskier slows her hips. "Gwyn. Are you with me?"

Gwyn curves down to kiss Jaskier's collarbone. Her nod bumps Jaskier's chin.

"Will you say it, love?"

Gwyn kisses the words into Jaskier's skin. "With you."

"Okay," says Jaskier. She thinks about the restless path of Gwyn's hand, about her trembling stillness. "Move back a bit, how about—"

There's a moment of shuffling. Jaskier places Gwyn's left hand, palm-up, between her legs. Gwyn strokes two fingers over Jaskier's labia, dipping briefly between. Her half-lidded stare is refocused.

"There we are," sighs Jaskier. She moves again, sliding wet on Gwyn's hand, moaning when Gwyn slips her fingers inside. "Oh—yes, _please_ —"

Jaskier rides Gwyn's hand at a slack, savoring pace, while Gwyn thumbs lazy circles around her clit. There's a glow of almost-pain in her muscles—the effort of slow exertion. They stay in that calm tempo, and warmth spreads under Jaskier's skin, hangs like a weight, driving her down on Gwyn's fingers. Jaskier's need surprises her, when it does appear; suddenly she's rocking quick and shallow, falling forward, panting against Gwyn's mouth. Gwyn holds her at the edge, lets her squirm and curse and plead for a few scorching, stretched minutes.

Jaskier bites down on Gwyn's bottom lip. Graciously, Gwyn speeds the motion of her thumb. The keen sting of pleasure tips her over the edge. She gasps, clutches Gwyn's hair, mooring herself through the aftershocks while Gwyn sneaks loose kisses under her jaw.

When Jaskier's muscles finally deign to unlock, she sits back on her heels. "How are—" She hesitates. "How's your arm?"

Gwyn smiles, dry, as she smears her wet hand across Jaskier's knee.

"Charming," says Jaskier. "I'll take that to mean _just fine, Jaskier, thank you for asking_." She flops down at Gwyn's side, kisses her thigh, and waits for Gwyn to start petting her hair. 

She doesn't wait long.

4.

Moonlight claws through the broken windows, striping the dusty floor. Jaskier prods the fire with a rusted poker. She'd cleared the rubble from the shitty old fireplace, but the flame hasn't improved beyond a pathetic sputter.

Jaskier makes an effort to count her blessings. There is a roof. An absence of mildew. The blessings stop there. 

The ruin was a cottage in a previous life, on the outskirts of a glum settlement. There hadn't been an inn for miles, or anyone friendly enough to spare the use of their attic. What the villagers lacked in hospitality, they made up for in monsters; the town had a fleder problem and a field of blood-drained cattle.

A shadow stretches into the firelight.

Jaskier whips around, brandishing the poker, her pulse spiking and her heart slammed up in her mouth.

Gwyn lays a hand on the tip of the poker.

"Fucking _hell_ , Gwyn," snaps Jaskier. She lowers her improvised weapon. "You scared me half to death."

In the cold moonlight, splattered blood blends into the black of Gwyn's leather, but Jaskier can see some, still, shining across the studs. Gwyn's eyes are flooded dark.

Jaskier takes a step closer. Remnants of her shock still jitter, echoing between her ribs. "Killed the fleder, then?"

Gwyn surges forward, and Jaskier drops the poker.

She mouths hungrily down the curve of Jaskier's neck, wrapping fists in the sleeves of her chemise. Jaskier's knees wobble. "Good to see you too, dearest," she wheezes. Her bewildered pulse spikes again. "Gwyn, love, what did you take?"

Gwyn drags in a jagged breath. "Cat. Thunderbolt." She licks over Jaskier's jugular. "Black blood."

Jaskier stifles the wanton sound that lurks in her throat. "What do you need?" 

They've done this dance before. She knows the steps. The potions induce physical extremes, easier to endure while Jaskier is Gwyn's anchor; but if Gwyn so much as misreads a quiver, she'll stalk back into the woods while the toxins drain. Jaskier has learned to be diligent about voicing her own intentions, and asking after Gwyn's.

Gwyn falls to her knees. The thud rattles up through Jaskier's nerves. "Want to taste you," growls Gwyn, resting her forehead against Jaskier's hip.

"Of course, darling." Jaskier looks down at Gwyn's bent body. "Can I touch you?" Her fingertips prickle with vague urgency.

"Can't," says Gwyn.

Jaskier only knows fragments, but she's grasping the shape of it, now—this shadowy thing that Gwyn can't name. Gwyn doesn't harbor a secret hatred of Jaskier's touch. She cannot always stand to _be_ touched. Especially not with poison thrumming in her veins.

An idea sprouts in Jaskier's mind. It's shiny, an attractive solution, so she plucks it, speaks it without much thought. "You could tie me up, love." 

It's the wrong thing to say.

Gwyn's nails scrape over her thighs. "No," she says, gravel-voiced.

"Then we won't," soothes Jaskier. A glob of guilt muddies her arousal, but she shoves it aside. "I'm going to lay down over the blankets, love. Take your time. I'll be here."

Jaskier doesn't undress—she doesn't want to presume, or startle. But the cottage lacks a mattress, so she rustles the bedding into a makeshift nest on the floorboards. She stretches out on her back, staring sideways at Gwyn. Black eyes meet hers. Gwyn is motionless, corpse-pale, striated with dark veins.

When Gwyn finally moves, it's not a desperate lunge. It's a careful rise to her feet and a measured fall between Jaskier's legs. She pushes up Jaskier's skirt and peels down the remaining undergarments. Her caution is a profound thing, akin to reverence. 

Gwyn lowers, prostrate to the ground, slicking her mouth up Jaskier's inner thigh. Jaskier's knuckles go white, fists clenched in her skirt.

"You have me, love," whispers Jaskier. "I'm with you."

The breadth of Gwyn's armor widens Jaskier's legs. Her thighs tremble around leather and metal. Gwyn leaves trails of pain-pleasure with mindless, toothed kisses, towards the soft crease where Jaskier's thigh joins her hip. "Gods," sighs Jaskier, "that's _good_ , Gwyn—love it when you mark me—"

It's heady, when Jaskier finds the right things to say. Gwyn rumbles helplessly into Jaskier's skin. She sucks a raw, red blot into the top of Jaskier's thigh, then lowers her mouth, breath stirring the curls around Jaskier's cunt. She inhales, deep and covetous, and strokes her tongue in a tight swirl around Jaskier's clit. The sensation is potent—a white-hot bolt. Jaskier shivers around a moan.

Gwyn's focus fixes on Jaskier's clit, chasing her moans into higher octaves, until her thighs quake, and the pleasure is sharp and vivid and balancing on the knife's edge of too much. Her orgasm is sudden, carving down her spine in a ruthless rush. Gwyn huffs, pleased, and slips her tongue down between Jaskier's labia, lapping at Jaskier's convulsing entrance.

Jaskier nearly bites through her own tongue. "You need more, don't you, darling?" She wipes her sweating palms over her bodice. "Go on."

Gwyn licks into her, spreading slick and saliva that drips into the blanket, shines obscenely over Gwyn's face. The messy slides of Gwyn's mouth aren't coordinated enough to do more than yank Jaskier in the direction of orgasm. She chews her lip, babbles comforting nonsense, enjoying the tease despite her body's pleas for release. It's easy, like this, when the only rules are _don't touch_ and _be touched_ ; it melts her brain into a haze. 

Then there's suction over her clit, and the haze shatters, and Jaskier comes again, shouting incoherent, adoring words. Gwyn flattens her tongue over Jaskier's cunt, lightens her strokes. The gentle touch makes her writhe.

"That's enough, love," gasps Jaskier, and Gwyn backs away before the sentence is finished. She crawls forward, looming above Jaskier, palms flat to the ground. Her face is a disaster: wet and spit-slick. Her eyes are still dark.

"You can kiss me," says Jaskier, transfixed by Gwyn's glossed mouth.

Gwyn sinks down, glacially. The first touch is tentative. But the contact ignites Gwyn again, and the kiss opens, becomes claiming, heart-splitting.

"If you want," stutters Jaskier, between presses of Gwyn's tongue. "If you want, I could take your fingers, now—"

Later, Jaskier's breath puffs out in weary flutters, and the black bleeds from Gwyn's eyes. Gwyn shrugs out of her armor and draws Jaskier close. Their heartbeats are offset, one of Gwyn's for every two of Jaskier's.

"When we do this," says Gwyn, "it needs to be—something you give me. Not something that I take from you."

Her voice resounds in Jaskier's chest.

"I'm sorry," mumbles Jaskier, drowsy. "About the—suggestion."

"Don't be." Gwyn squeezes her tight.

5.

The inn is prissy, compared to Jaskier's usual tastes; it's perched near one of Novigrad's southern gates, meant to receive the wealthier merchants after weary days of travel. Livelier company and better beers are found beyond the city limits. But she needed somewhere to land while she called in a few favors.

Jaskier waits at a corner table with an extra stein. She sips her beer, glancing surreptitiously at the satchel by her side, until a cloaked figure approaches. Jaskier recognizes her by gait alone: lighter than one would expect, for all the steel on her back. Her lure worked, then. Not that she had any doubts.

"Ah! There you are, Geralt!" In public, the old name is a reflex. "Did you miss me dearly? You don't have to answer, I'm sure you were moping all week—"

Gwyn moves to sit on the opposite bench. Jaskier tuts, and jerks the stein away. "I'm afraid _that_ seat isn't available, darling."

"Hm." Gwyn lowers her hood and sits beside Jaskier instead. "You have a good time at that banquet?"

"No," says Jaskier, grinning. "No, it was dreadful. So stuffy and boring. But I made plenty of coin—you won't have to hunt for our meals for at least a fortnight, and there's enough for a new jacket on top of that." A cheap jacket, maybe. The majority of her payment had gone towards something else.

Gwyn raises a brow. "You've got more clothes than I've ever owned in my life."

"For _you_ , you ungrateful lout." Jaskier flicks Gwyn's elbow. "You've been wearing the same things since before the gods were born."

Gwyn shrugs, and swigs her beer.

The barmaid sashays past their table, slanting a look down Jaskier's cleavage. Jaskier suppresses an eyeroll. The girl is a blindingly obvious flirt, and apparently undeterred by Gwyn's presence.

Jaskier leans heavily into Gwyn's side. "Did you end up following that lead about the—the, er—"

"Ghoul?" Gwyn snorts. "It was a stray dog."

"No payment, then?"

"None."

Jaskier pats Gwyn's hand, as if commiserating. "Ghouls make for poor songs, anyway." She locks their fingers together.

Gwyn's lip twitches.

The barmaid makes another circuit, stops short at the sight of their entwined hands, and swishes away, shoulders slumped.

"She's pretty," grunts Gwyn. Her fingers tense minutely. 

"So she is." Jaskier tugs their hands off the table, and sets Gwyn's palm on her leg. "But _she's_ not the person I've been waiting for."

Gwyn's grip crinkles her silk breeches. The image of rough knuckles over delicate brocade—Jaskier licks her bottom lip.

Somewhere, in the distance, Gwyn is asking something. The words filter through. "Have you had no one else?"

"No one—for what?" Jaskier studies the muscle of Gwyn's shifting forearm.

Gwyn's voice drops to a rumble. "To fuck. You kept yourself celibate for a week?"

"Oh, come now, that's not very long at all. It's not like I'll burst into flames if I go without," mutters Jaskier. Gwyn's harpy scar healed well, a pale line interrupting the scatter of silver hair. "And anyway, why would I bother, when I had _you_ to look forward to?"

Jaskier glances up. There's ample candlelight; it's not hard to see. And yet, Gwyn stares back with blown-wide pupils.

"Oh, love," breathes Jaskier. "Do you like that? Knowing that I waited?" She sets her hand back over Gwyn's. "That I'm so eager to see you again?" She softens her voice, slides Gwyn's hand up her thigh. "That just looking at you has been enough to get me _dripping_?"

That's an exaggeration, but with Gwyn's fingers slinking along her leg, she suspects that it won't be for much longer. Her theatricality has the intended effect: Gwyn's jaw goes slack. Her eyes glow like coals.

Jaskier aligns her side with Gwyn's, shoulder to ankle, and spreads her knees. Their body heat blends. She sinks her voice to a whisper. "You really did miss me, didn't you, wolf?"

Gwyn's hand tightens.

"Would you have me here, in front of that barmaid? In front of everyone?" Jaskier takes a nonchalant drink. While the stein obscures her mouth, she murmurs. "Would you stake your claim—show them all how well you fuck me?"

"Jaskier," growls Gwyn. Her fingers brush the seam between Jaskier's legs.

It's barely a touch. Jaskier shudders. She peeks down at Gwyn's hand. A new cut pinks the skin near Gwyn's thumbnail, and she tracks its motion. The scent of leather muddles her brain.

Jaskier fishes a key from her pocket. "So—it may interest you to know that I've got a room—"

They stand, almost in unison. Jaskier snatches the satchel and tows Gwyn to the room. The door clicks shut, and Gwyn presses her against it, hands roaming. Jaskier lowers the satchel to the floor, preoccupied by Gwyn's mouth against hers. Gwyn pulls at her waistband, fumbling around the buttons.

"Careful," chides Jaskier. "These were expensive." She bats Gwyn's hand away. Gwyn huffs her frustration into Jaskier's neck, and Jaskier laughs. "If you rip them, I'd have to take another boring banquet job, and then where would we be?"

Gwyn tugs Jaskier's collar, exposing the base of her neck. She sets a biting kiss there, and Jaskier's body thrums, attuned to the scrape of Gwyn's canines. "Gwyn, love—you can leave a mark—I'd show it off, let everyone know that I belong to you—"

There's a burn of teeth, for an instant. Then, a too-quiet pause. Gwyn lifts her head. Jaskier freezes, caught rolling her breeches to her knees.

"When I leave," says Gwyn, "I don't expect you to wait for me." Her brows are furrowed.

Jaskier almost smacks herself. Her instincts scream to shy away, hide behind the excuse of dirty talk. Instead, she stumbles into honesty.

"Well, I—would," she says. "I would wait." The words startle her.

Gwyn smooths a hand over Jaskier's hair. "Won't ask that of you."

"I know." Jaskier's pulse pounds. "But you _could_." It's a revelation—it floods her chest with warmth.

Gwyn tilts, holds her forehead against Jaskier's.

"Gwyn," whispers Jaskier, "if you ever—step off the Path—"

"Don't," says Gwyn, pulled like a thorn from skin.

"Alright." Jaskier leans towards Gwyn's mouth. "Alright, love."

Their kiss heats fast. Jaskier molds to Gwyn, trapped between the door and Gwyn's weight. "D'you still want," she mumbles, and Gwyn breathes an affirmation against her lips.

Jaskier's mind wanders to the satchel—a conversation best held in the morning, she decides. Gwyn rubs a hand against the damp fabric over her cunt, and she whines, thoroughly distracted. _Hold me against the door, where anyone could hear_ , she thinks, desperate enough to imagine the words, wise enough to hold them back. _I'm yours. Yours to have._ She's not new to love, or to lust, but this wild, twisting mix of them is unique. It roils under her ribs like a thunderstorm.

They collapse over the bed, shedding clothes with clumsy tugs. Jaskier grinds her hips against Gwyn, frenzied. Gwyn rolls Jaskier to her back, obliges her with a finger, then two—and finally, when Jaskier is wet enough to drip into Gwyn's palm, she stretches around a third.

Jaskier bucks up, fucking herself on Gwyn's hand. There's lightning in her blood, crackling under her skin. She shoves her own hand between their bodies, pressing quick circles over her clit, and bites her moans into Gwyn's shoulder.

Gwyn exhales, a hot curl over Jaskier's neck, and she thinks—there's a half-formed word, toneless, but it sounds like _mine_ —

And Jaskier comes, dazed, muffling her unsteady groan in Gwyn's skin.

6.

The next morning, the mattress dips, and Jaskier blinks awake. Gwyn's wearing loose cotton, hunched over the side of the bed, and it looks like she's putting on clothes—Jaskier almost whines—but then the sleep-fuzz clears. She's sliding out of her boots.

"Where'd you go?" Jaskier wipes grit from her eye.

"Checked on Roach." Gwyn climbs back into bed, sitting against the headboard. She cards through Jaskier's hair.

Jaskier buries her face in a pillow. "Ugh. You love Roach more than me."

"Hm." Gwyn bends down, plants a kiss under Jaskier's ear. "All my horses are named Roach."

"That wasn't my point, but I applaud your creativity."

"I've had a lot of Roaches," says Gwyn, "and only one of you."

Jaskier's heart bulges, painfully, like it's squeezed in a fist.

She flips over. "How _dare_ you—don't make me all sappy by talking about your fucking horses! You _menace_."

Gwyn's chuckle is all breath.

"Gods above," mutters Jaskier. "You could show a _little_ shame." She sits up, pecks Gwyn's cheek. "I went to the trouble of getting you a present, and everything."

Gwyn stills. Small creases form near her mouth.

Jaskier pats Gwyn's arm. "Don't work yourself up about it." She rises and pads to the door. The satchel lies forgotten by the threshold. "It's technically a gift for us both." She swipes it and hops on the bed.

Jaskier plops the satchel in Gwyn's lap. "There."

Gwyn squints. "A bag?"

"Come on, Gwyn, I know you're smarter than you look," says Jaskier. "Open it."

Gwyn rustles around, stiffens for a moment. Her eyes widen. She lifts up a tangle of black leather, heaped around translucent glass.

Jaskier fiddles with the edge of a pillowcase. "Have you ever used—"

Gwyn sets it aside. "Yes."

"And I assumed you'd be comfortable wearing it—"

"Yes _._ " Gwyn climbs over Jaskier, pinning her to the headboard. 

The slats dig into Jaskier's shoulder blades, but she doesn't mind. "So, you're happy with—"

" _Yes_." Gwyn grabs her by the chin and pulls her into a deep, hungry kiss. 

Jaskier loses minutes to Gwyn's relentless mouth. She breaks for air, panting. "Put it _on_ , then. We've only got the room until noon."

Gwyn's eyes are all pupil. She swings off the bed, strips rapidly, and steps into the harness.

It's finely made, dark leather and shining metal. Jaskier had preemptively buckled a glass cock in place. It slopes gently upwards from a flat base, gleaming and colorless. Gwyn tightens the straps until the cock moves seamlessly with her hips. The process of adjusting equipment—test a thumb under the leather, tug at a buckle—is strikingly characteristic of Gwyn, and it strains Jaskier's overfull heart just to look.

_So sentimental over a sex toy_ , she thinks. _That's almost worse than the horse thing._

Gwyn lies on her back, and Jaskier slides down her body, eyes locked with Gwyn's, stopping when her mouth hovers above the cock. "I'd like to," she offers, gently.

Gwyn's expression clouds. "Nobody's ever—"

"We don't have to," says Jaskier. "It'd warm you up for me—but we don't have to do it this way."

The silence thickens. Jaskier's breath fogs the glass.

"You can," says Gwyn.

Jaskier licks a stripe up the cock. Gwyn grits out a choked grunt.

Jaskier wets the glass thoroughly, and glances up through her lashes. "Don't move, darling, or I'll chip a tooth." She takes the cock in her mouth, sliding down slow, savoring the hitch in Gwyn's breath and the cool weight on her tongue.

"Jaskier," rasps Gwyn.

Jaskier pulls off with a slick pop. "You're doing so well, love." She sinks back down, one hand around the base while the other sneaks between her own legs. She slips a finger inside, humming, rocking idly against the heel of her hand.

There's a sudden sound—a grating rip. Jaskier sits up, as quickly as possible without knocking her teeth. Spit cools at the corners of her lips. "What was— _oh_."

Gwyn's gripping a shred of sheet in her fist.

"I—did you—oh, Gwyn," giggles Jaskier. She shuffles forward, thighs around Gwyn's hips, spluttering with laughter. "I didn't know—didn't know you hated the decor so much—"

Gwyn snorts, then shuts her up with a kiss. Her hands glide down Jaskier's sides, and she grips Jaskier's ass, urging her into a filthy grind. The wet cock smears Jaskier's thigh. Jaskier lifts her hips, positions the subtly flared head, and descends, gradually, moaning jumbled curses and Gwyn's name.

Jaskier plants her hands on Gwyn's shoulders. "Go ahead and move now, love," she sighs. Each restless shift of Gwyn's body echoes inside her.

Gwyn stares blatantly at the join between them, at Jaskier seated on the cock, and rolls her hips. A short, throaty sound leaves Jaskier's open mouth. She's been stretched wider, fucked harder—but the rapturous look on Gwyn's face, the possessive squeeze of her hands, the faint pink across her nose, trying valiantly to be a blush—it heightens everything. She glitters with pleasure. She must be radiating it, like sunlight.

Gwyn's grip moves to her waist. Jaskier nods. Gwyn's thrusts gain force, and Jaskier's thighs quake, held in place while Gwyn fucks her, setting a firm, well-gauged rhythm.

Jaskier's breath drives from her lungs. She simmers, aches with need. The fullness is satisfying, thrilling down to her marrow, and the cock's shape puts blunt pressure against the sensitive place inside her; but it lacks the precision of Gwyn's fingers. She leans back, brings a desperate hand to her clit. 

Gwyn groans, almost a snarl, and replaces Jaskier's hand with her own. She finds Jaskier's clit and rubs gently, a counterpoint to her steady thrusts. Jaskier bites down on a shout.

"Want you under me," growls Gwyn, "can I—"

"Yes," says Jaskier, "yes, love."

Jaskier rises off the cock, and Gwyn hauls her down, flat to the bed. She plunges back inside Jaskier with a broken moan. One hand seeks Jaskier's clit again, while the other clutches the sheets, adjacent to Jaskier's ear. 

Gwyn bends to kiss Jaskier's temple. Jaskier digs her nails in Gwyn's back. She's overwhelmed by Gwyn's fingertips on her clit, the glass stretching her cunt, the flex of Gwyn's body, slicked with sweat. A sweet, inescapable tension builds in her core.

"Oh, gods, Gwyn, I'm—don't stop," she begs. 

"Fuck—Jaskier." Gwyn sets her jaw. Her teeth click together.

Gwyn doesn't stop. Jaskier shakes apart.

She dissolves into a puddle of scraping nails and heaving breath, clenching down on the solid weight of the cock as she comes, crests of pleasure rolling down her spine. Her mouth is dry from panting—she might've yelled.

The world returns in pieces. Gwyn's hair is a wild tumble, a white blur at the side of her vision. The cock slides out. Jaskier trembles.

There's clinking metal. A bitten-off grunt. The slap of wet glass, falling against her thigh. Jaskier gets lost, for a moment, in the presence of Gwyn, still propped above: the salt of her sweat, the angles of joints and muscle. Then, her focus shifts, and she sees—Gwyn's twitching forearm, Gwyn's hand in motion, Gwyn's hand on _herself_ , crooked between her tense thighs.

"Oh," says Jaskier. " _Oh_." She swallows. "Can I—help?"

Gwyn's breath dampens Jaskier's cheekbone. "Talk," she grits.

Her voice shocks a shudder from Jaskier. She struggles for a second, scared to break the moment, to spill what she's trying to hold. "You felt amazing inside me, love," she whispers. "You were so perfect, Gwyn—I'm—" She stumbles. Makes a choice. "I'm yours, love—yours to keep."

This time, there's no mistaking it—the rumbling _mine_ that falls from Gwyn's mouth, greedy and shaking.

"That's right," says Jaskier, "yours," and Gwyn groans like she's dying, and Jaskier's cunt jolts feebly at the sound. Gwyn collapses. Her bulk crushes Jaskier to the mattress.

"Oof," huffs Jaskier, belatedly.

Gwyn rolls to her back. Jaskier inhales.

"Did you—" starts Jaskier. She trails off.

Gwyn turns to her side. She holds Jaskier's stare. Then she laughs a low, hoarse laugh.

" _Did you_ ," Gwyn mocks. "Sounds like a disappointing teenage boy."

"Oh, fuck _off_ ," says Jaskier, tripping into giggles. "I'm the only one in this bed who's actually had to suffer teenage boys, you don't get to joke about my pain—"

"Can't blame me for your poor decisions—"

"You're an utter prick—"

"You like my prick."

" _Our_ prick. Bastard."

When the laughter subsides, Jaskier is curled in Gwyn's arms. Her hair sticks to the sweat on Gwyn's chest.

"You realize that—I'm not trying to trap you," says Jaskier, tracing a knotted scar on Gwyn's arm. "I didn't mean it like that. I love you, but I know that your life is different, and—"

"Jaskier." Gwyn tucks a lock of hair behind Jaskier's ear. "You don't need to condemn yourself to me alone."

" _Condemn_? This isn't condemnation." Jaskier kicks Gwyn's ankle, lightly. "The second you feel _condemned_ to my presence, tell me, and I'll leave you forever."

"I don't," says Gwyn. "Don't feel condemned."

"That's what I thought."

Gwyn drapes her hand over Jaskier's chest, guarding the hollow between Jaskier's collarbones. "Don't leave."

Jaskier sets her hand on top. "I won't, love."

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Gwyn does not allow Jaskier to touch her chest or vulva during sex. She has a complex relationship with gender and binds her chest in public. This is all mentioned in a mostly accepting way through Jaskier's POV. Gwyn dissociates briefly during sex in the third vignette, but she recovers, and they continue. In the fourth vignette, Gwyn and Jaskier have sex while Gwyn is under the influence of potions, with more strict, pre-determined boundaries about touching (if that isn't clear enough let me know and I will explain further.) In the heat of the moment, Jaskier suggests that Gwyn tie her up, and she responds poorly to the idea, so they don't.
> 
> One last note—after writing this I realized that I might have been building up strap-ons to be like, the holy grail of lesbian sex, which they absolutely are not. My intention was more to describe it as an affirming experience for Gwyn, who has Gender Feelings.


End file.
